


Bruises

by Illiteracy_is_for_woozles



Series: The Future Is History [9]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Blood and Injury, Bruises, Depression, Father-Son Relationship, First Aid, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Medical Procedures, Mental Health Issues, Mild Blood, New Family, Panic Attacks, Parenthood, References to Depression, Self-Destruction, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, What Have I Done, Why Did I Write This?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-05
Updated: 2019-02-05
Packaged: 2019-10-22 23:51:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17672441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Illiteracy_is_for_woozles/pseuds/Illiteracy_is_for_woozles
Summary: Francis comes home late and Clint is trying.





	Bruises

**Author's Note:**

> I am posting this out of order because I finished it first and just wanted to get it up here. I'll move it to where it needs to be when I post the others.
> 
> Please, for the love of all that is good in this world, read the friggin' tags.  
> One of the characters is found out to be self-harming in this fic. There are no graphic descriptions of it, but the other character finds out about it and it is there.
> 
> Also: Mental health note, self-harming comes in many forms. It can be something as simple as scrolling through the hate tags on social media or making someone mad enough that they hit you. (The latter is what happens in this fic)  
> If you find yourself self-harming in any way, please ask for help from either a professional or someone you know and trust to get you help from a professional.

Clint sets the pizza boxes on the counter, breathing in the scent of the pies.

He glanced up at the clock. Frankie was late. He was usually gone most of the day, but not usually after dark.

The archer’s eyes were drawn to the door, but he shook his head and moved over to the cabinet. He pulled two glasses out and set them on the counter.

He looked to the window and nearly growled at himself when he realized what he was doing.

Francis was grown. If he wanted to stay out all day, he was allowed to do that. If he ended up in trouble, well… He was eighteen and that meant he was an adult. Adults made their own mistakes and suffered the consequences.

_ But what if- _ Clint shut those thoughts down. Hard.

He sighed and was just deciding to go out and look for his kid when the door opened, Frankie walking with his coat in his hand and a split lip starting to swell.

“Where’ve you been?”

The teenager shrugged without looking at him. He was stiff, and that was normal, but Clint thought that he had probably taken some body blows along with that shot to the face.

This hunch was proven true when he went to hang up his coat, his shirt riding up to expose how his lower back and side were riddled with bruises. Some were newer, but some of them were old, weeks at least.

“Francis Nathaniel.” Clint didn’t like using his full name, but what else was he supposed to do? “What happened?”

“Got in a fight.” Frankie pushed past his father and headed to the kitchen, acting as if this was any other night and following his routine of helping with dinner.

“Yeah, I can see that.” Clint sighed and laid a hand on the kid’s shoulder, intending to make him understand that he wasn’t necessarily angry with  _ him _ , but Francis jerked his arm away and sent one of the empty glasses left on the counter crashing to the floor.

Clint stood with his hands held up in surrender and Frankie’s chest heaved silent breaths.

“Hey, bud, it’s okay,” he offered. “It’s just me.”

Frankie slowly slid to his knees, his forehead pressed to the bottom cabinets and his eyes closed. His hands and knees were pressed into the glass on the floor and Clint noted that Frankie’d probably need a few stitches in his hands after this, though his jeans probably protected his knees, as he crouched down beside him.

The boy had apparently forgotten to breathe in his anxiety, so Clint softened his voice the way his therapist did when he freaked out.

“I need you to breathe, okay?”

Frankie nodded but kept his eyes squeezed shut. He slowly let what little air was in his lungs out and took in a breath along with Clint. The two of them continued this for a few minutes until Frankie was able to open his eyes and looked down at his bleeding hands.

He huffed out a brittle laugh.

“Crap.”

Clint shrugged.

“Not the first time someone’s bled all over this floor.”

They stood, Francis sitting at the table and Clint washing his hands in the sink before pulling the supplies he’d need out.

As he cleaned around the wounds, carefully pulling the shards of glass out with the tweezers as he went, he glanced up at his son’s exhausted face.

“Are you going to tell me where you got all those bruises?”

Frankie’s fingers twitched.

“I did.”

“No,” Clint said carefully, not unkindly. “You said you got in  _ a _ fight. Some of those bruises are a couple of weeks old, which means you’ve been in at least two or three.”

Francis was silent as Clint held up the alcohol in warning before pouring it over the cuts. He barely made a sound, but Clint knew it burned.

He carefully dried the skin and picked up the sewing needle.

“I just-” Frankie chewed on the inside of his cheek. “I messed up.”

Clint stayed silent, not wanting him to stop talking now that he’d started.

“Hydra caught us because I didn’t aim right and I couldn’t escape in time so they tortured Yasha and now I’m pretty much useless and I just… I thought it might make it easier to deal with.” His outburst petered off into silence and Clint looked up, not commenting on the tears sliding down his face.

“Hey, it wasn’t your fault.” He tied off the last of the stitches and started placing bandages over his palms. “I saw the security footage; you did the best you could with what you had, better than most even.”

He wrapped some of the medical tape around Frankie’s hands so the bandages would actually stay.

“And as for escaping? Yeah, I don’t know if _‘Tasha_ could’ve gotten out of there without outside help.” He made sure to catch the boy’s eyes. “But you are  _ never _ useless. You understand?”

Frankie swallowed and nodded.

Clint let go of his hands and allowed him to wipe off his face with his sleeves. The boy stood to find a broom and a mop for the mess and Clint went to put away the first aid kit.

“One last thing, though.”

Frankie winced, obviously knowing what he was going to say.

“You’re an adult and I can’t tell you that you’re not allowed to go out whenever you want,” Clint admitted. “But I swear, if I  _ ever _ find out you let someone hurt you again, I’m going to start stripping you down to your boxers and searching you every time you come home and then I’m going to go and beat whoever did it to within an inch of their lives, you understand?”

Frankie looked to the floor.

“Yes, sir.”

He went to turn away, paused, and turned back around to hug his father.

This whole parenting thing was  _ not  _ easy, but he was learning. Slowly, but he was learning.

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: I just got a job (YAY!!!!) so I won't have as much time to write (NO!!!) but I'll write on my lunch breaks and on the bus, plus whenever I get a day off.


End file.
